I feel a nauseating headache coming on, so this will be a short one before an early bed time.

Maurice Sendak passed away yesterday, and I was saddened by the news. Where The Wild Things Are is hands-down the book I’ve read to my children more than any other, and one of only a very few stories that I know by heart from cover to cover. I was always amazed by the simplicity of it, by how much came through the page with only a few dozen words and a picture. I’m not as familiar with his work as I wish I was, but it always seemed to keep cropping up when I least expected it. He had a very distinctive style so you always knew when something was done by him. More recently, when I started to study writers more than just writings, I came across a few interviews with him and he seemed so wonderfully cranky for someone whose books were read by children. Quite the character.

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